You are but many pieces scattered,
I sit and touch each one -
some jagged asking me to bleed
wondering the depth
it could take in me

Many perfect tears
I hold carefully by palm
each a siren on its call –

Others are picasso magma
I can only interpret
with my eyes closed,
my fingers entrapping
its emotion

And depending on the day
how you decide to tumble out
into the world
into the room with such attraction
you could catch me with corners of a smile
or throws of a fist -
Ill have you
however
you should be

That gold dust falling through my hands

~

12/30/2002

Posted on 12/30/2002
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